


Sun Down on the Sorry Day

by Fickle_Obsessions



Series: Sweet Baby, I Need Fresh Blood [7]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Daddy Kink, Harems, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America's Founding Vampires. George Washington is the sire of a coven (more like harem) of vampires. </p><p>Though still human, one night Lafayette goes a long way in proving to Washington he’s ready to be made. And in doing so also proves that Washington is maybe not entirely ready for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun Down on the Sorry Day

**Author's Note:**

> Well. These aren't getting any classier, are they?

Lafayette wakes up to the light touch of cool fingers upon his forehead. Still half asleep, he hums softly as they trail down his cheek to cup his jaw. Opening his eyes he finds the room still very dark; the windows, curtained and shuttered, are edged with only faint hints of a dying evening sun. The strongest source of light in the room is from the candelabra held aloft in Washington’s hand and kept carefully away from the bed curtains as he leans over Lafayette. 

Lafayette grins up at him, shuts his eyes again and stretches until he arches his back right off the mattress. After collapsing back into the bed, he gamely shifts over to make room for Washington to join him. He’d gone to bed without his beloved last night. Hamilton and Laurens had made themselves a nuisance and Washington had taken the bait, let them ensnare him. Lafayette knew better than to pout, but he could hardly relish the idea of spending the night alone. Quite a blessing then that a little before dawn Tallmadge had knocked softly on his door.

It was the first time he’d done it, come to Lafayette, kissed him. Tentative in the way he explored Lafayette, Tallmadge’s fingers were gentle, his grip never too tight. Having recently fed Tallmadge had a blush to match his shyness. Lafayette wondered how often Tallmadge sought mortal lovers, and thought it must be a rare thing. For his part, Lafayette found it easy to wind his arms around Tallmadge’s neck, kiss him, sit astride his hips and rock until they both were gasping. The only trouble was that Tallmadge did not stay.

Lafayette watches Washington set down the candelabra upon the table, and slip under the blankets beside him. Perhaps Tallmadge knew Washington would come to Lafayette after he woke. It’s a pleasant thought, that it’s assumed Washington would return to him as soon as possible. He molds himself to Washington’s side, and thinks of having Washington and Tallmadge both at once, wonders hungrily how soon he can achieve it.

It comes as no surprise that Washington rolls him over, first onto his back and then onto his other side, so that he can press up behind Lafayette. He combs his fingers through Lafayette’s hair until the nape of his neck is revealed, and places one soft kiss just beneath his hairline. Washington tucks his nose behind Lafayette’s ear, and throws a heavy arm over his waist.

Lafayette knows he should settle, be still and let Washington take his fill of the quiet, of the smell and sound of his blood beneath his skin. But he’s always been restless after he wakes, never liked to linger and doze. He wriggles, getting comfortable, puts his hand over Washington’s, taps the tips of his fingers against Washington’s fingernails, and tries not to ask again. He fails.

“When will you claim me like the others?”

“Lafayette,” Washington says, a growl of warning from a lion in repose.

Lafayette smooths his palm up Washington’s forearm, rubs it through his shirt sleeve as if soothing a beast. He waits until Washington’s breathing is easy again, slow and steady against his skin. Then he asks, “Will it be soon?”

Washington sighs, a lengthy gust of air over Lafayette’s neck that raises goose pimples in its wake. “It will be sooner if you would only stop being impatient.”

“Hamilton said that you are waiting for some sign of hesitation.” He tries to sound as if he is only idly musing.

Washington does not allow him the fiction. “Hamilton,” he says in a low and serious tone, “ought not to be speaking of such things. And you-” he tugs Lafayette more tightly back against him, gets his neck into a more dangerous position under Washington’s mouth. “Ought not to be listening to him when he does.”

Instinctively Lafayette gasps, but that does not mean he has sense enough to be silent. “But I am grateful, because he says that you wish to see how I will overcome the hesitation-”

“Lafayette,” Washington says again, perilously close to sounding angry.

But Lafayette is determined, blurts out, “And this concerns me, you see, because I do not think that I will ever hesitate.”

Washington sighs, this time for his benefit alone. He shifts away slightly, and pulls on Lafayette’s shoulder until he rolls again onto his back. Washington looks down at Lafayette’s face, peering at it with more care than eyes perfectly accustomed to the dark should need. He slips his fingers into Lafayette’s hair, nails gently scratching over the scalp.

“You are young, Lafayette. You don’t yet know what you are asking to give away.” A protest comes ready from Lafayette’s lips, but Washington shakes his head. “You don’t, and if you come to find that in the end the bargain was not fair, you will resent me.”

Lafayette melts at the impossibility, the unnecessary insecurity that he would ever, could ever resent Washington. He mirrors Washington’s gesture, lifting a hand and getting it into Washington’s hair. He tips his chin up, asking for a kiss and getting one. Once again in territory both safe and familiar, Washington relaxes, slips down to rest more fully on the bed so that he can lick deeper into Lafayette’s mouth. Lafayette sighs and hitches a knee up to hook it high on Washington’s hip, the weight of it tipping Washington to press against him. Lafayette rolls eagerly against him.

Washington breaks the kiss, murmurs regretfully, “I’ve not yet fed.”

Lafayette smiles up at him, soft and easy, “Ah, if only there were a willing victim right here and waiting for you.”

He tries to pull Washington down, guide him to his neck, but Washington resists him, immovable as stone.

“You make assumptions about how easy it is to die,” he says, stern and cold.

Lafayette lets his arms fall away from Washington’s neck, that tone of voice a clear sign there is no use in trying further. They’ve been at this impasse before.

“If I were to give you what you’re asking you would hardly be good for anything at all for several days, let alone tonight.” Washington sits up, turning his back to Lafayette and unless he thinks quickly Washington will leave to find easier company than an impatient, begging boy.

Lafayette pushes his palms into the mattress, gets upright and drapes himself over Washington’s back. “Then we must go hunting,” he whispers in Washington’s ear.

Washington, intrigued, turns his head and considers the offer. Lafayette raises his eyebrows, playful, eager. Washington offers up no word against it, and it is all the permission Lafayette needs.

Later, as they ready to go out, Washington must find some cause to doubt his agreement to take him along. He is too thoughtful, too silent, but thankfully he never changes his mind. Lafayette does not worry much at all, he has seen his beloved kill before.

This would be new, it is true. He has only been a part of the hunt at balls and concerts, and only then as passive bait. (It was for this reason that at least two times a week, Washington has the dining room table pushed aside and attempts to teach Lafayette how to make it through the most popular patterns with a bit more grace.) Those nights he only has to be himself, slender and handsome and so obviously alive that people often fail to notice his more reserved companions until they are close enough to be seduced or enthralled. It’s easy, and if Lafayette is being honest, the opulent setting of a grand home gives the killing a sort of elegance by association.

Tonight there are no balls to attend, no dinner parties with servants so busy they can hardly stop what they’re doing to look for missing footman. Lafayette has some idea of where they’ll make their hunting grounds tonight, but finds that he is looking forward to it. He swings his cloak about his shoulders with a flourish, smiles as he takes Washington’s arm. They go together into the night.

Following Washington’s lead they walk for an hour, far from their home, far from where they might be recognized. They head away from the river, into neighborhoods lit only with lamplight glowing behind grimy windows. Eventually they come across a tavern Washington decides seems a likely one, and pushing open the door they enter into a riot of noise. It’s a good night for the regulars, all of them singing songs, though unfortunately never the same song at once. The air stinks of smoke, ale, and unwashed bodies.

Washington finds a table tucked in a dim corner, ousts the two men sitting there with only the severity of his presence. Sitting down he slips Lafayette a bit of coin. Lafayette makes his way to the wine casks lining the wall, and keeps his eyes moving over the faces of the tavern patrons. What he is looking for, he is not exactly sure. He can only hope that he will know it when he sees it.

But someone makes it easier than that, taps his shoulder as he’s returning to Washington and says, “What is something as lovely as you doing here?”

Lafayette turns, ready to find a person of almost any sort in a place like this. The owner of the tapping fingers is not a young man, not a handsome one, but he is not repugnant either. He has a wild head of black hair and a beard to match it, ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. Lafayette hefts his two cups of wine up, looks tall and handsome and alive. “What everyone else is doing of course!”

Seeing two cups, the man asks, “Who are you with?”

Lafayette raises his eyebrows. He is so very blunt, and pressed close enough as to be presumptuous. Lafayette realizes the man must have taken him for a boy that can be bought. He must have seen the curl in Lafayette’s hair and the red tint of his lips and decided it was an advertisement of wares.

Slowly he smiles, “Come sit with me and see.”

The man trails after him, at first eagerly but then with slower, more reluctant steps as he begins to guess at their destination.

Nearing Washington’s table, Lafayette’s smile turns wicked. He calls out, “Father, I’ve met a friend.”

Washington arches an eyebrow at the name, but then shifts his attention to their guest.

Lafayette looks back, and sees the man hesitating. “Come, please,” he says, sounding as friendly and unconcerned as he can be. “For one drink at least.”

As they sit, Washington does nothing more than nod his head at the man, indication enough that he is not displeased. Lafayette places one cup before him, then drinks deeply from his own. He leans forward, “Tell us your name, sir.”

“John Bodey,” he says, stiffly. “I did not know you were here with kin, sir.”

He says this more in apology to Washington than Lafayette, but it’s Lafayette that waves his hand, looks distinctly unbothered. “My father and I are travelers, and we have been too long in only each other’s company.” He reaches his hand across the table, “I am Lafayette.”

With a nervous glance to Washington Bodey takes his hand, shakes it. Washington’s only reaction is to lift the cup before him. He does nothing more than wet his lips, but it’s blessing enough for Bodey. He seems to stop expecting he’ll soon be evicted from his chair by Washington’s boot, and starts talking.

Lafayette feigns an interest in the details of Bodey’s very ordinary existence, and spins a tale for his own amusement of how his French mother decided to marry an Englishman. He flirts in the crude sort of manner never allowed in high society. He stretches his legs beneath the table to touch Bodey’s foot with his own, drags the back of his hand slowly across his bottom lip after he drinks. At each of these signals Bodey flicks his eyes over at Washington, and tries to reign in his obvious hunger. If he suspects that this whole time Lafayette has been lifting up one of his heels over and over again to rub his thigh against Washington’s knee as they speak, he hardly shows it.

Washington lifts his cup to his lips a final time, perfectly trusting that Bodey is hardly paying attention to whether he drinks deeply or not. Standing, he plucks Lafayette’s empty cup from the table and says, “Another round, I think.”

Lafayette nods enthusiastically, “Excellent idea, Father.”

Washington leaves them, making his way through a crowd that tends to part for him the second they notice him. Lafayette turns his head to watch him go, trails his fingers over the tendon that shows in sharp relief on his neck when he does. It’s a habit he has picked up after becoming well-versed in a very specific type of seduction, but it seems to work on the living, too. When he turns back Bodey is as hungry as Lafayette has yet seen him.

Lafayette smiles at him, “We must be quick, mustn’t we?”

Bodey doesn’t hesitate a moment, just pushes his chair back and strides for the door. Lafayette follows him, finds Bodey waiting for him right outside the tavern. He takes Lafayette’s arm and pulls, greedy and eager, to drag him around the other side of the stable that’s attached to the tavern, to a corner hidden in shadow. It must be a familiar place to Bodey, he heads straight for it, looking neither left nor right.

Lafayette allows himself to get pushed against the wall, lets Bodey push up against him, press his mouth against Lafayette’s cheek and breathe sourly against it. “Pretty thing, you are,” Bodey mumbles hotly. “So pretty and sweet.”

Bodey wastes no time, lewdly presses his stiff cock against Lafayette’s thigh, gropes him through his breeches, and Lafayette cannot help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. Bodey freezes at the sound of it, and at once the hands on Lafayette turn cruel.

Grabbing at him hard enough to bruise, Bodey growls, “What the hell are you laughing at?”

It hurts where Bodey is grinding the bones of his wrists together but Lafayette laughs again, nervous and wild, because he can see the dark shape moving quickly behind Bodey. With every step Washington grows taller and taller until finally he is looming over the both of them, his broad, cloaked shoulders blotting out half of the night sky.

In a stunning bit of poor timing, Bodey lets go of one of Lafayette’s wrists and raises his hand. It is caught in a hand much stronger, and capable of being far more cruel. In movements almost faster than Lafayette’s eyes can follow, Washington slams Bodey’s wrist against the clapboard beside Lafayette’s head, and slips his other over Bodey’s mouth to stifle his shout of surprise. Bodey’s head is wrenched to one side, and Washington leans down to sink his teeth into his neck with a viciousness that is not restrained in the slightest. Washington drinks, ignoring all the futile, desperate clawing of Bodey’s free hand against his arm.

Lafayette relaxes against the wall behind him, waits patiently for the inevitable. He unlocks his fists from Bodey’s jacket and reaches beyond him to rest them on Washington’s hips instead. He has nothing to do now but watch the fear drain from Bodey’s eyes. In no time at all they begin to unfocus and drift, then finally they helplessly close. It happens so very fast that Lafayette finds himself thinking it’s a mercy. But then Washington is pulling his mouth away, and he tosses the body between them to the side like an unwanted burden.

There is a part of Lafayette that feels pity that a man has been turned into nothing more than a sack of meat and bones. But it’s a small piece, easily overshadowed by the giddy thrill that runs through him as Washington steps over the dead man’s boots toward him.

“Father,” he starts to say, a tease, but it’s cut off with yelp when he’s lifted up as if he were nothing. Washington’s hands cup the back of his thighs, draw them up and apart.

“How dare you,” Washington says, lips against Lafayette’s throat. He sounds furious, but still guides Lafayette’s legs to wrap around his waist. “How dare you let filth like that touch you?”

Lafayette makes no apology, just wraps his arms around Washington’s shoulders and cants his hips until he feels the hard line of Washington’s cock against his ass. He gasps out, “I’m only yours, Father,” still wanting to play the game.

Washington’s groan in answer buzzes against his skin, and Lafayette feels Washington’s grip tighten upon his hips. He marks the reaction, exults in it.

As punishment perhaps for his cheek, his carelessness, Washington sucks a mark upon Lafayette’s neck. He holds him tight enough that Lafayette cannot writhe against him, hips locked in strong arms so that he can only manage the shallowest shoves against Washington’s body. He sucks the bruise red and then purple, and only stops when Lafayette lets out a dangerously loud whine.

With clear reluctance Washington sets Lafayette down, but he doesn’t step away. He braces his hands against the stable wall, hemming Lafayette in with his arms. Beneath him Lafayette cups Washington’s face, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs, as he breathes deep and struggles his way out of the euphoria of blood well thinned with cheap spirits. Lafayette kisses his slack mouth, tucks his head against Washington’s shoulder and says, “Take me home, Father.”

Washington makes a soft, almost helpless noise, but he pushes away from the wall a moment later. He stands tall, makes himself steady.

They leave Bodey there with a slice in his neck obscuring the marks of Washington’s teeth and his pockets picked. The wound will not bleed, but it’s not likely anyone will notice. With the money stolen from Bodey’s pocket they hire the first free carriage they see and take it home. They draw the curtains on the windows, and Lafayette presses against Washington’s side, hands wandering. Any time Washington’s mouth isn’t on his he’s whispering that word again – “father, father,” – while Washington grips him tight and shudders.

“You’ll make it true, won’t you?” Lafayette pleads. “Soon? Please, Father.”

That Washington’s only response is to take Lafayette’s face in both hands and kiss him fiercely seems promising.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let Me Be Your Killer King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679797) by [iniquiticity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity)




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